


Rise

by scapeartist



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 07:30:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7091641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scapeartist/pseuds/scapeartist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian and Emma make bread and innuendos</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ael_tRlailiiu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ael_tRlailiiu/gifts).



> This was a birthday present for a dear friend who likes to bake (bread) and loves Captain Swan. She thought they needed a break and a bit o'fluff. The recipe they work through is a real recipe and can be found here: http://www.myrecipes.com/recipe/whole-wheat-walnut-bread (feel free to skip the walnuts if you want).

Killian Jones was a man of many, many talents, some of which Emma had become intimately acquainted with just in the past couple of weeks. But she never could have prepared herself for the scene that greeted her when she returned home from the Sheriff’s station that afternoon.

There, at the large farm table in their kitchen, was Killian, setting out a glass bowl and several ingredients he’d emptied from the grocery bags piled on the counter behind him.

Emma paused in the doorway, mouth agape but eyes narrowed. Slowly, she shut the door behind her and stepped into the living room.

“Ah, Swan! Just in time!” Killian called out, his warm smile impossible not to return.

“For what? Iron Chef audition?”

“I’ve no desire to wear any more metal than I currently do, so no.”

Emma laughed to herself as she shed her jacket and tossed it on the couch on the way to the kitchen. Killian put down a bag of flour he’d been inspecting and opened his arms to her. She tucked herself into his side, meeting him halfway for a kiss as he curled his arm around her shoulders to keep her close. He kissed the top of her head and breathed out what Emma hoped was a contented sigh.

“Mmm…I could get used to the whole ‘kiss the cook’ thing. What are you making?”

“We are going to make bread.”

Emma looked up at him, surprised. “ _We_? What’s wrong with the bread we have?”

Killian scoffed. “There’s nothing wondrous about that bland square you try to pass off as bread, love. That’s sliced lies in a bag.”

Stepping out of the circle of his arms, Emma began picking up the various ingredients placed on the table. She could get by when it came to cooking the basics and Henry’s favorites, but the words “from scratch” were not in her vocabulary.

“Didn’t know pirates had time to cook between all the pillaging and plundering.”

“Bake, darling. And cook, sometimes. I learned how to make this long before I was a pirate.”

“So the Navy not only taught you to read Greek, but to cook—I mean bake—too?”

“Hardly. Officers of the line don’t spend time in the galley unless something has gone horribly wrong. No, I learned when Liam and I were, uh, _consigned_ to a merchant ship. I was too small to do much on deck, and for a time was assigned to the galley. Whenever we were in a large port and could acquire better supplies, Cook would make this bread for the captain and whatever paying passengers we had on board.”

“Oh. That was… quite a while ago.”

“Aye. More than a little. But on the rare occasion, when Cook would let me have a small crust of it, I felt…better. Like for a moment I was home again and all was well. So I learned to make it on my own.”

This was the most Killian had ever mentioned of his time in servitude when he was a child. She hadn’t pushed for more when he told her almost in passing, knowing all-too-well how hard it could be to talk about childhood trauma. She didn’t want to push now either. She squeezed his hand and he smiled briefly, looking down at the floor rather than at her.

Clearing his throat, he pulled the glass bowl closer and emptied a packet of yeast into it after tearing it open with his teeth. She had a hard time taking her eyes from his mouth when he did stuff like that. Maybe him taking over some of the food prep was not a bad thing at all.  

He nudged Emma with his hip. “And I’m quite good at it, too,” he said.

“I bet you are.”

Backing away from Emma toward the sink behind them, Killian reached over and turned on the tap, letting the water heat up until small wisps of steam curled around his face. He washed his hand and his hook, much to Emma’s amusement, dried them on the dish towel folded next to the sink, then filled a glass and brought it over to the table.

“Much quicker than waiting for it to heat up in a kettle.”

He grabbed the small jar of honey and passed it to Emma.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Right now, I’d like you to pour some in the bowl. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

“And later?”

“Well, maybe I’ll let you tell me when to stop.”

“Deal.”

She unscrewed the top of the rounded jar with the tubby bear on the label and tilted it toward the bowl. The thick amber liquid slid out and pooled over the yeast in a gooey, translucent layer. Emma loved the way the light shone through the honey as it slipped over the lip of the jar, reminding her of the gold at the top of the beanstalk and how it, too, had glowed as they hunted for the compass.

“Stop.”

Emma pulled the jar up quickly, but the honey was slow to follow and dripped down the side. Emma gathered it up on her finger and was about to put it in her mouth when Killian grabbed her wrist and brought it to his mouth instead.

He licked the smudge of honey from her finger, never taking his eyes from her. The glide of his tongue sent a warmth through her, and her eyelids fluttered.

“But I wanted to taste the honey.”

Killian leaned in, his lips hovering over hers. “Pirate,” he said, then kissed her.

She thought it tasted better on his lips and tongue than it would have from her finger, so her plans for retaliation died a swift death.

Killian pulled back and bussed her nose with his. “Best go wash your hands, love.”

“I think I might need a cold shower if this is how you cook. Bake. Whatever.”

“Patience, Swan. There will be time to satisfy all your appetites. Preparing this,” he nodded at the contents spread across the table, “won’t take long and then it will need to rise for a while.”

Emma practically snorted. “Are you talking about the dough or something else?”

Killian shot back with one of patented lascivious grins and gave her a shove toward the sink.

“Hands.”

Emma saluted. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

He poured the hot water over the honey and yeast to help them both dissolve and then set about putting the next ingredients in order. Emma dried her hands and spent a moment watching Killian make his way around the kitchen gathering the tools he needed to finish making bread with her.

For all that the road they travelled to be together was filled with sinkholes and dangerous blind curves, the way she felt about him now was blissfully uncomplicated. She just loved him. It was simple as that. That he wanted to share this part of himself, and wanted to do this small thing for her–for them–meant the world to her. Scratch that. It meant all the worlds, because one wasn’t enough for how much she felt, and for the first time it wasn’t overwhelming. She loved being a team with him whether it was defeating evil or baking bread. He was her partner in all things risky or domestic.   

When she returned to his side, hands clean, he handed her a spoon and the bottle of oil.

Emma raised an eyebrow. “Why do you keep giving me the potentially _really_ messy stuff?”

“Love, we’re making bread. It’s all messy. Pour two spoonfuls in. The yeast is ready.”

Emma did as he said, being as careful as she could to not overflow the shallow spoon. She dumped each spoonful in as he plopped two dollops of plain yogurt into the bowl.

“Yogurt? Not like you guys had refrigerators. How’d you keep it?”

Killian shrugged as he spooned flour from two separate bags into measuring cups. “We might not have had an icebox, but we had a cow or two if the previous voyage had been a successful and lucrative one. The captain preferred his milk fresh and his meat less salty than what I became used to in the Navy. Not that he shared with the likes of me or Liam. But, yes, getting back to your question, we didn’t need to keep it for long, so Cook made very small batches. Mainly to make the bread.”

“Huh.”

“Now, love, you stir that, and I’ll start adding in the flour.”

Within a few moments of stirring the flour and liquids together, the dough was forming, sticky and thick and a rather dull beige. It was getting difficult to get the spoon to move it and Emma felt almost instinctively the need to put her hands in it to move it around.

Killian unbuttoned the cuff of the sleeve of his hooked arm and rolled it up to the edge of the brace, just out of the way. He used his hook to release the button of his other sleeve and pull it up part way, but then he brought his arm up and head down and used his teeth to tug it farther along his forearm.

“Can I?,” Emma asked, nodding at his arm.

“No need, love. You don’t have to.”

Emma stuck the spoon into the dough and moved closer. “I know I don’t _have_ to. I want to. And it’s either I do it, or I watch you do it and then ruin the whole bread thing by throwing you down on the table and having my way with you. We’ve come too far, and I want to try the damned bread.”

“When you put it like that,” Killian said, and held out his arm to her.

She tugged his sleeve straight and began rolling it up toward his elbow revealing a lean forearm and his tattoo. She ran her fingers lightly over the dagger, a painful reminder to him, and now her, of so many wrongs.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to say goodbye to Milah properly,” she said quietly.

“As am I, love. Knowing Hades is dead makes up for some of it. I’m glad you met her though.”

“Me, too. She _really_ didn’t like Rumplestiltskin.”

“Aye, we had that in common after the fact.”

“We all do now. Maybe he won’t come back.”

“One can only hope. Shall we finish this part now?”

Emma nodded and patted his arm before releasing it.

Killian picked up the last of the flour in the measuring cup and scattered some over the table.

“If you don’t mind, love, put the dough down here. Time to knead it. I thought we could take turns.”

“Sure.”

Emma picked up the sticky dough and placed it on the table on top of the flour. Some of it still stuck to her hands and fingers and as she began to try to roll it off, Killian tossed a little more flour over the dough and began using his hand and hook to push it around. She watched how he used his fingers to squeeze the dough and the hook to pull it apart again, making sure all the flour blended in. The muscles in his arms flexed with each press of his hand into the dough and she was mesmerized.

It was almost as bad as watching him use his mouth. She hoped they would be done soon or she was going to need to move to an ice floe to get this bread finished. She shook her head briskly and watched how he used the hook to twist the dough.

“Now I get why mixers have bread hooks,” Emma said.

“Mixers?”

“Yeah, they are machines with a bowl that goes with it and different attachments to help mix whatever it is you’re making. I never paid much attention to anything besides beaters, but now I get it. That’s pretty handy. Or hooky.”

“Aye, it’s useful, but truth be told, I’d prefer to use two hands to feel when the dough is really done. Why don’t you come take a turn.”

Killian moved aside and Emma stood in his place. He sprinkled a little more flour onto the dough and table as well as Emma’s hands. She looked at him from the corner of her eyes.

“It’s to keep the dough from sticking to your hands. Trust me.”

He motioned for her to get started. As she sunk both hands into the dough, the softness of it surrounded them and she wiggled her fingers feeling the resistance no matter how she moved. It was definitely slow work, but after a moment, she got into a rhythm of pushing, stretching, and flipping the dough, and felt the pull of every single muscle in her arms and upper back.

Killian leaned over her shoulder, his breath disturbing the fine hairs behind her ear.

“Is this where you stand behind me and correct my technique so you can be close to me?”

“Your technique is fine. Do I need a reason to stand close to you?” he asked. He put his hand on her hip and his hook in her belt loop and sidled closer until his chest was flush with her back.

Emma laughed. “You don’t actually want to make bread at all, do you?”

“Of course I do. I can’t stand another day using that other ‘bread’ for anything other than shoring a leak in the hull of my ship.” He leaned down and kissed her neck then moved up to her jaw. “Am I too distracting, love?”

“Yes. Yes you are. Back off, mister, or it’s going to be nothing but Wonder Bread from here on out.”

Killian put his arms up and stood back, a smirk planted firmly on his lips. Emma shook her head and gave the dough one last punch.

“Is it done?” she asked, jabbing it with her finger.

“Aye. I’ve already oiled up the bowl, so put it in there and then flip the dough so there’s oil covering both sides.”

“Fine.”

Emma did as she was asked and Killian grabbed a damp towel he had ready and covered the bowl.

“I need a warm place to set it to rise.”

“There’s a radiator in our bedroom.”

“My, my, but you have a one-track mind, Swan.”

Emma ignored his comment. “How long does it need to rise?”

“About an hour. It needs to double in size.”

Emma’s eyebrows arched high. “We _are_ talking about the dough, aren’t we? Because you need _far_ less time than that.”

Killian chuckled. “Guilty. Shall we see just how long I need to…rise?”

Shoving the bowl at Killian, Emma pushed him toward the stairs. “Go on, bread guy. I’ll be right up.”

Emma snatched the honey from the table and followed closely behind.

The two ignored the dough for an hour…and a little. It rose without their attention.

Later that night, having finally finished baking the bread, Killian made Emma the best grilled cheese she’d ever had. The bread was soft and a touch sweet, and she understood what Killian meant about it tasting like home. Before she thanked him properly (bread dough wasn’t the only thing that rose a second time that day), she tossed the bag of Wonder Bread in the trash and never bought it again.


End file.
